


it's a goddamn blaze in the dark and you started it

by 152glasslippers



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Artist Karen Page, F/M, Kastle Christmas Secret Santa Gift Exchange, Meet-Cute, Menstruation, POV Frank Castle, POV Karen Page, Widower Frank Castle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28437231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/152glasslippers/pseuds/152glasslippers
Summary: He moved into the building almost a year ago. He has two kids, a son and a daughter. The day she heard him laugh when she passed the three of them on the stairs, she almost missed a step, craning her neck over her shoulder to watch him disappear around the corner, chasing the warmth of that sound.Artist/widower/next door neighbor AU.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 184
Kudos: 227
Collections: kastlechristmas2k20





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aurelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia/gifts).



> For Kastle Christmas 2k20 and the prompt "AU where one is the artist and the other poses for them."
> 
> Somehow that spiraled into... _this_. I hope you like it. ❤️

The man across the hall keeps to himself. He is handsome and quiet. He calls her ma’am when he passes her in the hall, dark eyes, deep voice. He wears heavy tactical boots tucked into his jeans; she has never seen him wear anything else. He held the door open for her once, calloused hands and bruised knuckles.

He moved into the building almost a year ago. He has two kids, a son and a daughter. The day she heard him laugh when she passed the three of them on the stairs, she almost missed a step, craning her neck over her shoulder to watch him disappear around the corner, chasing the warmth of that sound.

She doesn’t know his name or what he does. She knows where he lives and the exact color palette of the flannel shirt he seems to favor. She knows that sometimes he looks the saddest she’s ever seen a person, except in the bathroom mirror.

Sometimes she wonders about him, her imagination wandering, filling in the blanks her observations can’t. Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to meet a person and not notice every detail.

But they haven’t met. Not yet.


	2. meetings

Frank is late. Very late.

One of the benefits of working construction was supposed to be the early hours, early enough he could meet the kids after school, but his walkthrough at the job site ran long and he hit traffic on the way home and—he checks his watch as he races up the stairs. He’ll have to tell Lisa to carry her key with her every day now, not just on the days he knows he’ll be home late. They’ve been locked out of the apartment for almost two hours. They—

They aren’t in the hallway. They aren’t sitting in front of the door waiting for him. Lisa and Frankie aren’t anywhere.

He makes his way down the hall, fear slowing his footsteps and sharpening his senses. He sweeps his gaze over the hallway, memorizing every inch of it as it looks now in case—

There’s a post-it note stuck to their door. A message from Lisa, scrawled in her loopy handwriting.

_Hey Dad!_   
_The lady who lives in 5B (the one who’s always covered in paint) invited us over so we wouldn’t have to wait in the hall. Come get us when you get home!_   
_Love, Lisa_

Frank sighs, a moment of relief, before he tenses again, the yellow post-it crumpling in his hand as his fists clench. He’s never met the woman who lives across the hall, only seen her from a distance, passed her on the stairs. Tall, blonde. He’s still sweating from running up the stairs, but his skin goes cold. He was late to meet his kids and now they’re in a stranger’s apartment. He turns around and pounds on the door behind him.

The woman who lives in 5B, the one who’s always covered in paint, answers the door—covered in paint. Or, her paint suit is, plastic and white with the hood pulled up over her head and a pair of goggles over her eyes, all of it splattered in a rainbow of color.

“Hi,” she smiles. Big, breathless. “You must be Lisa and Frankie’s dad.”

Before he can answer, he hears a shrieked “Dad!” and Frankie appears, barefoot and wearing two trash bags, one with holes cut out for his arms and his head, the second taped to the other like a skirt, falling to his ankles. He has his own eyewear, similar to the kind Frank wears when he’s on site, a shower cap covering his curly hair, and what looks like plastic wrap taped around his arms.

“Dad!” Frankie grabs him by the arm and tugs him into the apartment. “Come look.”

He follows, throwing the woman who lives in 5B a bewildered look as he passes her, but she only laughs and closes the door after him.

It’s one of the smaller units in the building, a single open living space leading into a kitchen and, around the corner, a bedroom and a bathroom he can’t see but he remembers from touring the building before they moved in. He barely glances in that direction. Cheery pop music fills the space and paintings of all sizes are stacked against every wall, except for the half of the room that’s been cleared and draped with plastic, Lisa in the middle of it all, dressed exactly like Frankie, throwing darts at a floor-to-ceiling canvas splashed with streams of dripping paint and an array of balloons.

After three misses, Lisa finally pops one of the balloons, sending more paint spilling down the canvas.

Frankie yells, “My turn!” and sprints towards the plastic sheeting, but 5B calls out, “Hey! You know the rules. No running in while someone is throwing!” and Frankie comes to a dead stop. Lisa throws her last dart and the two of them rush to the canvas, yanking the darts free for another round.

Frank turns to the woman next to him, speechless. She’s pulled the hood of her paint suit down, her goggles now perched on top of her hair, drawn into a messy bun at the back of her head.

“I didn’t have coveralls in their size, so we had to improvise.”

Because the trash bags and the plastic wrap would have been his first question.

“They were sitting outside your door when I got home.” The light in her eyes shifts, suddenly serious. “They said they were waiting for you, but,” she glances at his kids, diligently taking turns hurling darts at the balloons. “It didn’t seem like the best place for them to wait. I’m sorry if I overstepped. I know a woman you don’t know inviting your children into her home is…strange, at best.”

He takes her meaning, but it’s hard to recall the exact size and shape of his concern in the face of her sincerity, in this room filled with color and music and the sound of his children laughing and getting along. Lisa and Frankie were strangers to her, too, and she could have left them where they were, but she made sure they were safe, instead.

“Thank you.”

She brightens, a pink flush to her cheeks.

“You’re welcome.” She nods her head at the canvas. “It’s more fun with help anyway.”

As if on cue, Lisa and Frankie Jr. erupt into a chorus of cheers, jumping up and down after Frankie pops the last balloon. They turn and face him once they’re done celebrating.

“Now what?”

“Now I unwrap you and take you home,” Frank says, “before we trespass on our neighbor’s hospitality any longer.” He kneels and starts dismantling Frankie’s makeshift protective gear.

“Can we come back and see it once it’s dry?” Lisa asks while she peels the plastic wrap from her arms.

The woman who's always covered in paint smiles and bends to help Lisa lift the trash bag over her head.

“As long as it’s okay with your dad.”

Two pairs of eyes look at him expectantly.

“Sure.” He fishes his keys out of his pocket and holds them out to Lisa. “Why don’t you get your stuff and go start your homework? I’ll be right there.”

“Okay.” Lisa snatches the keys from his fingers. “Thanks, Karen!”

She steps off the plastic, and Frankie takes off after her, his bare feet slapping the floor. “Yeah, thanks, Karen!”

Frank drops his head, chin hitting his chest as he realizes he never asked the name of the woman who rescued his children, never even introduced himself. He gets to his feet and holds out his hand. She takes it, and sure enough, there’s paint on her fingers.

“Frank Castle.”

“Karen Page.”

He tilts his head at the mess behind him.

“Need help cleaning up?”

“No. That’s okay.” But it’s kind, not a dismissal.

“Thank you. Again. I…” They walk towards the door, and he trails off. Everything he wants to say, every explanation on the tip of his tongue is too much to tell a woman he's just met. “Thank you.”

“They’re good kids.” She looks down at her feet like she’s debating something, and when she meets his eyes again, there’s a gentle resolve there. “I know you still don’t know me, but if something like this ever happens again, they’re always welcome. Just…” She shrugs. “Knock on my door.”

He studies her, trying to gauge whether she really means it, and she looks back at him calmly, seemingly unafraid of his scrutiny.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she answers softly.

He’s trapped in her gaze for a moment before he can shake it. He clears his throat and starts to thank her again as he steps into the hallway, but she cuts him off.

“Frank. The first time was enough.”

He nods, and he feels the corner of his mouth lift, laughing at himself.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Page.”

“You, too, Mr. Castle.”

*

Three weeks, and he takes her up on her offer.

All it takes is one late shipment, a delivery of materials only he can sign for, and he’s shit out of luck. Curt is traveling more for work these days, and it’s too late to find a babysitter. He’s out of options.

He Googles her first because he’s not an idiot.

Karen Page, associate professor at the Hell’s Kitchen branch of New York Community College. She teaches 2D art, painting mostly, and a single course on ceramics. She manages to make her faculty photo look like a glamour shot.

He loses himself down the rabbit hole of her Instagram, a digital art portfolio devoid of any personal photographs. She’s prolific to a degree that approaches madness, which he supposes is appropriate given how insanely talented she is. Frank knows next to nothing about art, but even he can see that.

His search doesn’t turn up any red flags, but he knows that’s not the reason he decides to trust her. It’s her eyes, the look there when she offered to watch the kids. It was there when she knocked on his door three days later to tell Lisa and Frankie their painting had dried, and it’s been there every time he’s run into her in the weeks since, something knowing and kind.

He knocks on her door after dinner.

“Frank.” Karen looks surprised but not displeased, and he takes heart in that. She steps aside to let him in, and for a second, he feels too large, too heavy for her space, for her bare feet and the pale purple bra strap peeking out from under her tank top. For the smudge of blue paint along her cheekbone and the flecks of white in her hair.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

She shakes her head.

“Perfect timing. I needed a break.”

He can see the painting she’s working on, propped on an easel across from the door. It looks almost finished, a field of black that fades to gray two thirds of the way across the canvas. There’s a single point of blue in the bottom right-hand corner, the size and shape of a thumbprint. He doesn’t realize he’s staring until her voice breaks the silence, soft behind him.

“Frank? Did you need something?”

“Yeah.” He drags his gaze away from the painting and back to Karen. “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “Listen, you say no if you need to, but I have to stay at work late tomorrow and—”

“You want me to watch the kids?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Look, I know it’s short notice, and it’s a lot to ask—”

She stops him before he can say anything else.

“It’s not a lot to ask. I offered.”

“The kids get home from school around 3:30, and I should be back by 8, 8:30. Is that…Is that doable?”

“Sure,” she says, like it’s simple.

“They, uh, they don’t have any allergies. I can give you money for dinner.” He reaches around to his back pocket for his wallet, but she waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.”

Maybe it is simple.

“Okay.” He nods, dropping his gaze to the floor. He’s not used to things being this easy. “Thanks, Karen.”

He heads towards her door, uncertain, but when he turns around to thank her one more time, his eyes catch on the painting again. He takes a step back into the room. The words are out before he can overthink it.

“Can I…” He glances between Karen and the painting. “Can I ask…?”

“I teach. It’s for an exercise with my students. An abstract representation of an emotion.”

He walks over to the canvas, stops right in front of it.

“What emotion?”

She follows him so they’re standing side by side.

“You tell me.”

There’s a burst of color in the upper left-hand corner he didn’t notice earlier. He looks more closely, and the colors separate into individual swatches, more thumbprints, mixing and overlapping, dense and bright. They scatter, fewer of them as the white behind them gives way to gray, as the gray grows darker, swallowed by the field of black. It seems to stretch endlessly across the canvas while his eyes scan it left to right, until finally he reaches the lone blue print. Now that he’s close, he can see a subtle halo around it, almost like it’s glowing. His eyes flit back to the top corner, so far away, unreachable across the void. And still, that faint blue glow.

A familiar feeling pulls at his chest, an ache he recognizes.

“Loneliness.”

He looks at Karen when she doesn’t say anything, and she’s already looking right at him, her eyes so full they could spill over.

She doesn’t have to tell him he got it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the balloon painting was shamelessly stolen from [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fvynhfS0vAE) in The Princess Diaries.


	3. an invitation

Frank invites her over for dinner Sunday when he picks up the kids.

Karen doesn’t even need Lisa and Frankie’s squeals of excitement. It’s the shy, gruff way Frank asks, “You free Sunday night?”

She’s powerless to say no.

Lisa and Frankie greet her with a resounding chorus of “Karen!” when she knocks on the door Sunday, each of them grabbing one of her hands to pull her inside. They’re both talking a mile a minute, and she lets their joy wash over her, catching Frank’s eye where he’s standing in the kitchen behind them, an apron tied around his waist, the smirk on his face entirely too amused by her adoring fans.

Two weeks ago, he was a stranger, a man she wanted to know more about, and in that regard, not much has changed. He’s still basically a stranger, and she stills want to know more about him, but he’s real to her now. He cooks and his children are delightful. He has a name and a way of looking at her like he sees everything.

She’s so fucked.

*

Dinner is…comfortable. There’s an ease to the whole evening that leaves her feeling homesick for the kind of home she never knew.

The kids disappear into their rooms after dinner—there’s a limit to the amount of interest any adult holds, even one as exciting as they apparently find her—and Frank sends her into the living room, refusing her offers to help clean up.

“Gonna leave most of it for later anyway. I’ll be right in.”

She doesn’t sit, looking at the books on the shelves, the frames on the walls. Lisa and Frankie grow and shrink in the pictures, moving backwards and forwards through time, infant to toddler to child and back again. First Christmases and first days of school, winter snowstorms and summer picnics. Frank ages and de-ages in the pictures, too, alongside a woman who must be Lisa and Frankie’s mother.

She’s beautiful, warm brown eyes and an irresistible smile. Karen stops at a picture of her on a carousel with Lisa and Frankie, each of them on a horse, her careful hands holding tight enough to ensure they don’t fall, loose enough so that they feel free.

“That’s Maria. My late wife.”

Karen spins around. Frank is leaning against the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, arms folded.

A man with Frank’s presence should be incapable of stealth. He seems to have mastered it.

His face is tense, the ease of the evening gone. Guilt, she’s guessing, for not telling her about Maria. She doesn’t blame him. It’s not easy to tell the people you meet about the ones who have died.

“I know,” she says. Frank doesn’t move a muscle, but she can tell she's shocked him, his eyes widening, stripped bare to find his secret already revealed. “Lisa and Frankie told me that first day. They wanted to make sure I knew you weren’t a bad dad; you were just doing everything by yourself.” Frank swallows, and Karen returns to the picture in front of her, giving him time to recover. “How long ago did she die?”

“Three years. Car accident.”

Frankie can’t be more than six in the picture; Lisa no older than nine. It must have been taken shortly before Maria died.

“That’s too young to lose a mother,” she says softly. She turns to face Frank. “Too young to lose a wife,” she adds, but he doesn’t say anything, watching her with his somber intensity.

Karen leaves the carousel photo behind, moving on to the other frames on the walls.

“You don’t mind me snooping?”

Frank answers with a shake of his head. She’s at the far wall now, and the pictures in the frames aren’t of Maria or the kids and they’re not all pictures. Service medals. Frank and other men in military fatigues, arms around each other’s shoulders.

“You served?”

“Marine Corp. Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq.”

“How many tours?”

“Too many.” Frank sighs. He steps into the room and sits down on the arm of the couch, knees spread, feet planted firmly on the floor. “I really loved being a marine, you know? I mean, I lived for it. I loved being a husband and a father, but there were days if you’d asked me which I loved more, I wouldn’t have been proud of the answer.” He laughs in a single breath, self-deprecating and bitter. “But the job…” The line of his jaw tenses. “All that shit follows you home. Maria saw it. The kids saw it. Even if they didn’t have the words to say it. So I left. Took an honorable discharge and stayed home.”

Karen looks back at the pictures on the wall. A group photo of his unit, a candid shot of Frank hugging a Black man in a hospital bed. The two of them posing for the camera in the next one, their eyes red, their smiles wide.

“Takes courage,” she muses.

Frank scoffs behind her.

“I’m no hero, Karen.”

She turns around.

“I didn’t call you one, Frank.”

The challenge earns her a smile, his eyes shining with respect.

“Realizing when something isn’t good for you? Admitting that it’s taking more than it’s giving? Daring to imagine life without it, leaving it all behind. And then finding that new life? It takes courage.”

She casts her eyes to the ceiling and smiles, shrugs, trying to undercut the fervor of her speech, trying to soothe the blush in her cheeks, but the look in Frank’s eyes has shifted from respect to awe, and it sets her on fire from the inside out.


	4. quiet

A month and a half after she found his kids stranded outside his front door, Karen finds him there. Key in hand, but he can’t make himself go inside.

“Frank?”

He lifts his head at the sound of her voice, tearing his gaze away from the doorknob, the lock he can’t turn. She’s only a few paces away. He’d heard heels clicking down the hall, but he hadn’t thought it was her. She never wears heels.

She takes the last few steps towards him.

“You okay?”

He answers honestly, before he can reconsider. It’s becoming a dangerous habit.

“Lisa and Frankie are sleeping over at their friends’ tonight.” He looks down at the key in his hand, running his thumb over the teeth, the grooves digging into his skin. “I should be grateful you know? For the time to myself. Truth is,” he meets her eyes, patiently waiting for whatever he wants to share, “I don’t want to go in there. It’s too quiet without them.”

Karen studies him. He feels paper thin.

“Have you ever sat for a portrait?”

He blinks.

“What?”

She tips her head towards her door.

“Why don’t you come inside? Sit for me.” She laughs, not unkindly, at what must be the stricken expression on his face. “I’ve got beer, and I’ll put the radio on. Come on.”

She’s soft and sharp tonight, the pale gray of her nail polish, the sleek black lines of her trench coat. Her smile, curving gently; her eyes, keen on his. Karen is always magnetic. Tonight, she’s undeniable.

“Okay.” The word comes out hoarse. He swallows against a dry throat.

She leads him into her apartment, shedding her coat and her shoes on the way to the kitchen, and he trails after her, pulled along by her gravity. She’s dressed formally tonight, fitted black skirt and cream-colored sweater. He resists the urge to ask why. It feels like the question will reveal more about him than the answer will reveal about her.

She hands him a beer and gestures towards the living room with her own bottle, before disappearing into the bedroom.

“Pick a seat. I’ll get set up.”

There’s another painting on her ever-present easel, but he bypasses it and sinks into a worn leather armchair. He’d given her free reign to familiarize herself with his photos, but without her there, her painting, half-finished and in progress, feels more personal somehow.

Karen returns, hair piled on top of her head, and starts flipping through the canvases stacked against the wall. She makes the switch and drags her stool and the easel closer to him. She flips on another lamp and the radio, true to her word. The Boss is singing. It’s the kind of thing that would have made Maria proclaim, “It’s a sign!”

He drums his fingers against his thighs.

“Now what?”

Karen’s bare feet are perched on the bottom rung of her stool. She takes a swig of her beer, shrugs.

“Get comfortable. Talk. Don’t talk. It won’t bother me.”

Karen peers at him from around the canvas. The way she’s looking at him is different than how she usually does, like she’s seeing more than him, or only pieces. What will she see when she breaks him down to his parts and then paints him back together? He’s not sure he wants to know. Or maybe he wants to know too much.

A decade of military service, and this might be the most terrifying thing he’s ever done. Somehow it’s still preferable to his empty apartment.

He can make out the sound of her pencil scratching over the radio. The longer they go without saying anything, the more he feels the need to explain himself.

“It’s not the first night Lisa and Frankie haven’t slept at home since…” He lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air, unspoken. Her pencil keeps scratching. He wants to thank her for that. “It’s not that I’m worried about them. It’s not an overprotective thing—” He sees Karen arch an eyebrow behind her canvas. “It’s not only that,” he mumbles. “It was quiet that night, too, you know? Kids were out, no Maria. And then the phone rang.” He reaches for his beer. He focuses on the sound of her sketching, the sound that reminds him that he’s here, with her, not anywhere else. “Doesn’t matter that we moved. The quiet still creeps up on me.”

“Why did you move?”

“Outgrew it. Kids got older. Lisa needed her own room.”

Most people seem disappointed when he tells them his reasons, like they were waiting to prove how compassionate they could be once he told them it was too hard to move on, that he felt Maria’s absence in that space, or whatever display of grief they wanted to gawk at.

Karen accepts his answer without comment. He wants to thank her for that, too.

They settle back into the not-quite silence, and Frank watches her watch him. He lets his eyes move over her slowly, taking her all in. The tiny crease between her eyebrows, the color high on her cheeks from the beer. The strands of hair that have fallen loose from her bun that he can’t even see, only the way they catch the light. The slope of her shoulders, the slant of her neck as she tilts her head in consideration. He doesn’t know how long they sit there, but it’s long enough that he could be convinced this is the whole world, the leather armchair and the wooden slats of the frame, holding the canvas taut. The radio and the pencil and Karen’s eyes on him.

He doesn’t want to break the spell, but he wants to hear her voice. He wants to know more than what he can see.

“Why art?”

Karen hums.

“I started late. Later than most. I, you know,” she waves her drawing hand, “drew birthday cards for my parents and took art class in elementary school like most kids, but it wasn’t until college that I pursued it with any sincerity.” She pauses to take a drink of her beer. “My mother had died a few years earlier,” she says calmly, matter of fact, and Frank’s heart clenches. Her voice in his living room comes back to him. _That’s too young to lose a mother_.

Karen doesn’t look at him as she continues, eyes on her canvas, but the sound of her sketching has stopped.

“My father and I never got along. It was worse without her there. I was angry and…” She hesitates, frowning slightly, like she’s searching for the right word. “Destructive,” she settles on finally. “And then my brother died.” Now she looks at him. The sadness in her eyes is haunting. “I almost quit. I was 19, and I was so tired. But Kevin wanted me to finish school more than anything, so I transferred to the city, dropped my old major, and started taking art classes instead. I was so sick of destroying everything. I wanted to create something. And it saved me.” She laughs, short and breathy, like she’s embarrassed by her honesty, at revealing such a simple but powerful truth. She shouldn’t be.

Frank looks around her apartment, at the paintings hanging on the walls and stacked against them, at the films on the windows in her kitchen, at the dishes on the shelves she made with her own two hands. At the room she filled with color and texture and warmth, as vibrant and interesting, as complex and beautiful as the woman it all came from. She created everything in this space, down to the feeling he has when he’s with her.

“You’re wrong, Karen,” he tells her, and she looks up at him, eyes big and blue. Months later, he’ll think this is the night it all started. The night he fell in love with Karen Page. “You saved yourself.”


	5. firsts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: menstruation
> 
> This chapter is about periods. I have no excuse for myself except to say—Lisa is 12 years old and without a mother. You had to know this was coming.

When Karen was nine, her grandmother told her it was time to learn how to make her secret fudge recipe.

“Your mother never learned, so it’s up to you to carry it on.”

It was after Christmas. Her parents had taken Kevin sledding. She didn’t want to be stuck in the kitchen; she wanted to be outside, in the snow.

“Why don’t you just write it down?”

Her grandmother had tilted her chin up with her index finger.

“Because. It matters how we share things, love.”

Her grandmother’s recipe was the first Karen ever made by herself, the first she ever made from memory, and it was one of the first things she gave up when she left Vermont.

Who was she carrying it for anymore?

*

Lisa knocks on her door on a Saturday afternoon, still in her pajamas, down to the slippers on her feet.

“Hey, babe.” Karen first called her that a few weeks ago and Lisa had thought it was hilarious, but she doesn’t even crack a smile now. Karen lets her in and peers around her at the empty hallway. “Your dad know where you are?”

Lisa won’t look at her, her eyes on the floor.

“I told him you promised to show me the painting you were working on.”

She hadn’t.

“Okay,” she says gently. “What’s really going?”

Lisa finally looks at her.

“I got my period,” she says miserably. “I didn’t know what else to do. I mean,” she huffs. “I know what to do. But I don’t have anything and—” Lisa looks at her meaningfully and Karen hears the rest. _I didn't want to go to my dad._

“Come on.” She takes Lisa by the hand and leads her to the bathroom, to the shelf where she keeps extra pads and tampons. “I’d recommend a pad. Your period probably won’t be that heavy, so a tampon might be uncomfortable.”

“Okay.” Lisa is wide eyed.

“You know how to use it?”

“Peel and stick?”

Karen laughs.

“Peel and stick.”

She leaves Lisa in the bathroom with instructions to shout if she needs help and waits for her in the kitchen. She tries to remember her first period. She can’t.

Lisa comes out of the bathroom and slides onto the stool across from Karen.

“How are you feeling?”

Lisa shrugs.

“Fine, I guess. I’m just tired. I had it when I woke up, and I spent all morning stressing about what to do.”

Karen imagines her lying in bed, hiding under her blankets, alone in her misery, and her heart breaks a little.

“You can always come to me,” she tells her softly.

Lisa nods solemnly, but she smiles a little, too.

“Okay.” Karen slaps her hands on the counter. “Get up. We’re going to go shopping. Get you what you need.”

“We’re not dressed!” Lisa protests.

It’s true. Karen’s still in her pajamas, too. She’d been up all night painting and hadn’t seen the point in getting dressed this morning. Still doesn’t.

“So?”

“So!”

“Who cares?”

Lisa gapes at her until finally she grins big and hops down from her stool.

“Let’s go.”

They walk hand-in-hand to the Duane Reade on the corner, spend some time perusing the feminine hygiene aisle— “a cissexist term” Karen informs Lisa—debating brand and size, wings vs. no wings, before grabbing a heating pad from the first-aid section and ending up in an uninspired snack aisle. The shelves are half empty, picked over by last night’s drunk customers and this morning’s hungover ones.

“You need chocolate. Good chocolate,” she tells Lisa. She scans the rest of the aisle, the end caps—the sign for the baking aisle, one over. The thought is sweet and heavy, all at once.

This is who she was carrying it for.

Karen looks down at Lisa.

“Have you ever made fudge?”

*

They spend the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen. Her fingers grabbed the ingredients off the shelves without her direction, and her hands know the steps even when her mind stumbles, the recipe embedded in her muscles, in her bones. Lisa asks her questions the entire time, nothing off limits.

Has Karen ever bled onto her clothes? _Yes._ Her sheets? _Yes._ How does she get them clean? _Soak them in cold water._ What if Lisa needs to use the bathroom to take care of her period but her teacher says no? _Go anyway._ Can people tell? _No._ Will her dad be able to tell? _No._ Frankie Jr.? _No._ Which does Karen prefer? Pads or tampons? _Menstrual cup._

“It’s reusable and—” She hesitates. She doesn’t know how much information is too much information.

“What?” Lisa is edge-of-her-seat curious, like she’s been saving these questions for years, and Karen supposes she has.

“I can save the blood if I want. To paint with.”

Lisa looks like Karen broke her brain.

“You can paint with it? Isn’t that…gross?”

“It’s just menstrual blood, babe,” she says, and Lisa laughs this time. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It doesn’t have to be gross.”

“And it’s…safe?”

“The paints I use are more toxic.”

Lisa eyes her conspiratorially.

“Can we do that together? Paint with our menstrual blood?” She says the word easily, and Karen smiles.

“A menstrual cup might be a little advanced for you right now.”

“But someday?” she presses. “When I’m older, when it’s not so advanced for me.”

It knocks Karen out a little, to know the future in Lisa’s head includes her.

“Promise.”

They sit close on the couch while the fudge chills in the fridge, and Karen downloads a period tracking app on Lisa’s phone.

“Lisa,” she starts carefully while Lisa clicks through the screens. She is not Lisa’s parent. She is very aware it’s not her place to tell Lisa what to do, but there’s something that has to be said before she goes home. “I get why you didn’t want to go to your dad today. And it means so much to me that you felt comfortable confiding in me, but…” She takes a deep breath. “You need to tell your dad.”

Lisa looks up at her.

“Do I have to?”

“He cares about you. He’ll want to be there for you. You need to be able to tell him when you need to go shopping, and he needs to be able to help you and your doctors make informed decisions about your health.”

“It’s embarrassing to have to talk to your dad about this kind of stuff.”

“It’s not easy, but it doesn’t have to be embarrassing. It’s not like he didn’t know this day was coming. I’m sure he’s been just as worried about it as you. He might be surprised, but he can handle it.”

“…Okay.” She hides her face against Karen’s shoulder, wraps her arms around her waist. “Thank you for today,” she mumbles into her shirt.

Karen holds her close, running her fingers over Lisa’s hair.

“You’re welcome, babe.”

*

When there’s a knock on her door a few hours after she sends Lisa back across the hall with her Duane Reade supplies and a container of fudge, Karen knows it’s Frank before she even opens the door.

He’s leaning against the doorframe with a six-pack of beer in hand, and he’s wearing a black Henley that’s sinfully snug and unbuttoned in a way that makes her want to slip her fingers underneath the collar so she can feel the warmth of his skin over his heart. The laughter and gratitude in his eyes confirm her suspicions.

“Lisa told you.”

“You took a bullet for me today.” Frank pushes off the doorframe, passes right by her to head straight for the kitchen. She shuts the door and follows after him.

“I think that’s overstating it, don’t you?”

Frank pulls the bottle opener off the fridge and opens them each a beer.

“You have to know how much mortification you saved the both of us today.” He takes a drink and adds, “Especially me.”

“I didn’t take you for the squeamish type.”

“I’m not. But I don’t menstruate,” he says, completely serious.

Karen bursts out laughing. Frank looks startled.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…not words I ever imagined I’d hear you say.”

Frank shakes his head, the corner of his mouth ticking up, and she could swear he’s blushing. It’s unfairly adorable.

“Guess not.”

His laughter fades as they stand there, watching each other from across her kitchen.

“If she had come to me, I don’t know what I…I would have made it worse, that’s for sure. I couldn’t have answered her questions. And the last thing I want is for her to be ashamed of her body.” He looks down at the floor like he’s steadying himself. When he looks up, the tears in his eyes catch the light. “Maria was supposed to be here for this, you know?”

“I know.”

“Lisa’s lucky to have you.” But something in the way he’s looking at her says that he’s the lucky one.

“I care about her a lot. Her and Frankie.” But what she wants to tell him is that she cares about him.

Karen takes a drink of her beer and Frank leans back against the counter and the moment passes.

“Shit, Karen, if I felt like I owed you before…”

Karen rolls her eyes.

“You don’t owe me anything, Frank.”

“Still. You need something, you say the word, yeah?”

She’s about to wave him off again—helping Frank and his kids has never been about expecting anything in return—when she reconsiders.

“Actually,” she says, and Frank catches her eye over the rim of his beer bottle. “What do you know about welding?”

Frank stops with the bottle an inch from his lips.

“Well, shit. You’re never dull, are you Ms. Page?”

Karen smiles.

“No. Never.”


	6. truth

That’s how it starts.

Frank devotes a few Sundays to giving Karen welding lessons after she shows him the sketches of the metal sculptures she’s been dreaming up; Karen spends an afternoon with Lisa and Frankie baking cookies for Frank and the crew in thanks; Frank offers to drive when Karen needs to go to a specialty paint store upstate, save her the trouble of renting a car or taking the bus in return for taking the kids off his hands the day they baked; and on and on, weeks of trading favors back and forth to say thank you.

“So, you’re dating,” Curt says when he visits Frank for lunch one day. They’re perched on a pair of paint buckets on the top floor of the building Frank’s working on, looking out over the city through newly installed windows. It’s not phrased as a question.

“No.”

Curtis shoots him a knowing look.

“Really. And where were you two weekends ago when I was having movie night with Lisa and Frankie?”

“I was at home.”

“Yeah, you were at home. Making dinner. For Karen.”

“She watched the kids while I was at group the week before, you know that. I was saying thank you.”

“By preparing a homemade meal for a beautiful woman,” Curt says wryly. “Frank. Come on.”

“We’re not dating,” Frank growls. He takes a bite of his sandwich and focuses his attention on the skyline sprawling beneath them, avoiding the assessing look in Curtis’ eyes.

“This about Maria?”

No one else would get away with asking the question, but no one else has been there for him like Curt, both before and after Maria died.

“No.”

“You and I both know there’s no timeline for this sort of thing. If you’re ready to be in a relationship again, you deserve to have that.”

“Yeah,” he says roughly. “Yeah, I know.”

But Curtis isn’t done.

“If it’s not about Maria, this about the kids?”

Frank hangs his head and sighs. Part of it is. He’s a single father. Nothing in his life is only about him.

“How do I know if they’re ready for that? Seeing me with another woman?”

“I think they’ve already told you. They love Karen.”

“Then how do I risk that?” He looks back up at Curtis. “I mean, you’re right, Curt. They love her. They _worship_ her. I say something and it doesn’t work out? How do I do that to them? How do I risk them losing her?”

Curtis shifts on his bucket, turning his body away from the windows to face Frank head on.

“You really think she’d do that? Because after everything you’ve told me about her, everything the kids have told me, as much as she seems to care about them—I don’t think she’d let that happen. I don’t think she’d let anything come between her and Lisa and Frankie, no matter what there is or isn’t between you two.”

The thing is, he knows he’s right. Karen cares about his kids—she’s told him as much—and he knows there’s nothing in the world that could change that. He sees it every time she’s with them.

“What if that’s all this is, yeah?” he asks quietly, and Curt leans in closer. “What if it’s just about the kids? She cares about them, and I’m their dad, and she’s just…being a good neighbor.”

He feels like an idiot. He feels like a goddamn preteen with a crush, like he’s never done any of this before. He wouldn’t blame Curtis for laughing at him, but he doesn’t.

“I don’t know, man,” he says, sympathetic. “But she’s talented and smart and interesting and kind. And she seems to like spending time with you. For some reason. It’s beyond me,” he adds, and Frank snorts. “So how long are you going to wait to find out?”

*

The question rings in his head the rest of the night.

When he leaves the kids with the sitter and walks across the hall to 5B; when Karen opens the door and the smile she gives him is blinding; when he drives them to the gym and Karen describes her latest sculpture idea, her hands delicately tracing the shape of it in the air.

_How long are you going to wait to find out?_

Karen asked him to teach her to box after she spotted his bruised knuckles when he picked the kids up from her place last week, and the gym’s owner—another ex-Marine he met in group—had lent Frank the key so they could use the space after hours. Karen takes off her coat, and Frank tries not to stare at the long line of her legs in her leggings, at the bare skin of her back beneath the crisscrossing straps of her sports bra. He tries to ignore the brush of their fingers while he tapes her hands, the scent of the citrus soap she uses to scrub the paint off her skin. Tries not to focus on how close they’re standing; how soft she feels.

He lines Karen up in front of the punching bag, plants himself behind it, and tells her to show him her best punch so he can get an idea of where she’s starting. She lands the hit with more force than he was expecting, the full weight of her body behind it, surprising him and jostling the bag out of his hands.

He raises his eyebrows.

“Maybe it’s not your first rodeo.”

“Maybe it isn’t.” She shrugs lightly. “Kevin had bullies.”

She rolls her shoulders, bounces on her toes. Her hair, high on her head in a ponytail, sways with the movement. He searches her face, but she gives nothing away.

“What happened?”

Something fierce flashes in her eyes.

“He didn’t get bullied anymore,” Karen answers simply, and he can’t help but think it’d be a privilege, to be loved that fiercely.

The questions screams through his head again. _How long are you going to wait to find out?_

“Attagirl.”

*

Karen invites Frank and the kids to the studio where she teaches ceramics ostensibly to thank him for the boxing lessons, but it’s just as likely the invitation comes because Frankie has been begging Karen to teach him to use a pottery wheel since he found out she knows how.

They meet her on campus, in a small room that feels bigger for all the natural light. Counters run along two of the walls, windows stretching all the way to the ceiling above them. The windows are set back, windowsills nearly two feet deep, each displaying pottery or a sculpture of some kind. The studio was clearly an addition, annexed onto the building after the rest of it was built. Karen confirms his suspicions when he asks, a smile on her face like she expected the question, and he can’t decide whether it’s proof of his predictability or how well she’s come to know him.

She outfits the kids in men’s button downs faded from use and long enough to fall past their knees and hands Frank an apron. She’s kneeling in front of them, rolling up their sleeves, before he can even tie it on.

Frankie demands Karen be the one to help him, and they pair off, Frank and Lisa behind one wheel, Karen and Frankie behind another. Karen takes them through the steps, deftly keeping an eye on his progress with Lisa while she works with Frankie. She’s good at this, teaching and leading. Easy going and encouraging, excited and positive, even in the face of their false starts and many mistakes. It doesn’t surprise him in the least, but he’s grateful for the chance to see her this way.

It’s the most fun he’s had working with his hands in years.

They end up with two slightly lopsided bowls and gray water spots splattered across their sleeves and skin when throwing pots devolves into a splash fight, the four of them flicking water at each other from across their stations.

Karen removes their bowls expertly, her clay encrusted hands holding them steady while the kids scratch their initials into the bottom, and puts them on a rack to dry. Frank is the last to stand, the last to wash his hands, as Karen shows Frankie and Lisa a large board lined with neat rows of coin-sized clay discs, displaying different colors of glaze pre- and post-firing. They won’t be able to apply the glaze today, she explains, but Lisa and Frankie can pick out what colors they want and how they want their bowls to look, and Karen will glaze them, fire them, and bring them home.

Frank wanders while Lisa and Frankie make their choices, imagining Karen among her students, scanning the pieces in the windows, trying to pick out which one of them might be hers. All of them are clay except for one, a house of cards captured mid-tumble, the cards secured in a permanent fall. The only sculpted part of it is a small, female figure with long kinky curls, formed from brown clay, pushing at the bottom-most card in the right-hand corner of the structure, the cause of the collapse.

Karen appears at his side silently while he studies it.

“This one of yours?” he asks.

She smiles tenderly, almost wistful.

“No. It’s one of Ben’s.” She looks at Frank. “My mentor. He was one of my professors that first semester.” _After Kevin_ , he hears, but she doesn’t say. They both turn back to the sculpture.

“What’s it called?”

“‘Truth Topples Power.’ Have you ever seen the painting ‘Truth Coming Out of Her Well’?”

Frank shakes his head.

“The full title is ‘Truth coming from the well, armed with her whip to chastise mankind.’ It’s one in a series by a nineteenth-century French artist, where truth was personified by a naked woman getting lost down or climbing out of a well. After the Greek philosophy, ‘of truth we know nothing, for truth is in a well.’ And maybe the saying ‘the naked truth.’” Karen points to the small figure. “Ben modeled her after that painting, down to the way she’s crouched. He always said art is truth, and that’s what makes it dangerous to the people who try to censor it. Because truth incites change, and change threatens anyone who benefits from the world staying the same.”

Frank’s eyes are drawn to the top of the house of cards, two of the king of diamonds, back-to-back, still upright. If he were to press play on the sculpture’s downfall, they’d slide right off the top and hit the ground.

“He was right about that.”

“I know it’s cliché to say he taught me everything I know, but…He taught me everything I know. He knew this was it for me before I did.” Her voice fades to a whisper. “He said this is what I’m meant to do.”

“He was right about that, too,” Frank tells her softly.

The sound of Lisa’s and Frankie’s voices breaks their reverie.

“Karen! We’re ready!”

She turns with a smile, “Let’s see!” and Frank watches her go, watches her slide into a chair between his kids, watches them lean across her with ease, pointing out different colors on the board, their faces bright and animated. Watches as Karen listens with rapt attention as they describe their artistic vision.

The thought strikes like a shot from a sniper, fast and out of nowhere, ripping him apart: He can’t lose this.

He can’t lose the four of them together like this. He can’t lose Karen. Her mischievous smiles, her keen eyes, her warmth and her understanding. He can’t risk what she’s already giving him just because he wants more.

_Truth incites change._

How long is he going to wait to find out?

A little longer.


	7. in sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: grief, loss of a parent, emetophobia
> 
> The last is not described in any detail, but it is mentioned several times, in the context of a child feeling ill.

Her phone rings while she’s on her way to class, Frank’s name flashing across the screen.

“Hey.”

“Karen?” He sighs, sounding relieved she picked up. “Karen, I—I need your help.”

She stops walking down the sidewalk.

“Name it.”

“Frankie, he, uh…He got sick at school. Threw up in class, and…” His voice drops lower. “Karen, I cannot get out of this goddamn meeting. Curt’s out of town and—there’s no one else I trust.”

She steps out into the street, flagging down a cab.

“I’m on my way.”

He gives her the address, waits on the phone while she gets in the cab, repeats it to the driver.

“I’ll call the school, tell ‘em you have my permission to pick him up, and I’ll be out of this meeting as soon as I—”

“Frank.” She cuts him off. “It’s okay. I’ve got him.”

The line goes quiet, a heavy silence, and then—

“Yeah. I know you do.”

Something warm blooms in her chest.

“See you soon,” she says and they hang up.

She sends an email to her students on the way, canceling class, and tells the driver to keep the meter running when they pull up to Frankie’s school. The administration assistant in the front office checks her ID and signs her in, gives her directions to the nurse’s office. She doesn’t run, but it’s close.

She sees Frankie before he sees her, through the open door to the nurse’s office. He’s curled up, pale and grimacing, on one of the vinyl-covered benches every nurse’s office seems to have, but his eyes light up when she comes into view.

“Karen!”

He pushes himself into a sitting position and holds out his arms, and Karen walks right into them, crouching down in front of him and pulling him into her chest. He lays his head on her shoulder and whimpers in her ear.

“I threw up in front of my whole class, Karen. It was so embarrassing.”

“It’s okay. Everybody gets sick. You couldn’t help it.”

“They said Dad couldn’t come, and Uncle Curtis couldn’t come. There was no one to come get me.”

Her heart breaks. He sounds even younger than he is.

“It’s okay,” she repeats. And then she tells him what she told Frank. “I’ve got you now.”

She pulls him even closer, and Frankie tightens his hold, burying his face in her neck. Karen looks over her shoulder at the nurse hovering behind them.

“Karen Page?” the older woman asks. Karen nods. “He vomited again when he came to my office, but only once, about an hour ago now. He hasn’t had anything to eat or drink to help his stomach; he refused it all.”

“Thank you.” She ducks her head to whisper in Frankie’s ear. “Do you want me to carry you out?” Maybe he’s too old, but he’s definitely not too heavy. He feels fragile in her arms.

Frankie shakes his head against her neck. Karen loosens her hold, and they stand up together slowly. She picks up Frankie’s backpack with one hand, and Frankie takes her other.

“Feel better soon, Frankie,” the nurse calls gently, and Frankie mumbles a thank you as they make their way out the door, his face serious with concentration, like he’s scared he’ll be sick again, and he’s trying not to.

He sits on her lap in the cab, and Karen wraps her arms around him, trying to keep him from getting jostled. She tips the cabbie extra for waiting and before they can even step away from the curb, Frankie asks in a small voice, “Karen? Could you carry me now?”

*

She carries him all the way into her apartment, unlocking the door with one hand, the other clutching him close to her hip. She carries him back into her bedroom and sets him down gently on the edge of her bed. It’s more comfortable than the couch—and closer to the bathroom.

Karen unlaces Frankie’s sneakers, tugs them off his feet.

“Do you want to change your clothes?”

Frankie snuffs and nods, and Karen brings him one of the giant t-shirts she wears sometimes when she paints. She doesn’t have any pants that won’t be woefully big on him, but her shirt should cover him head to toe. He takes it from her, and she smooths her hand over his forehead, brushing his hair back, checking for a fever. Her brain stutters at the motion, part instinct and part memory, and for a brief moment, Karen’s forehead tingles, a flash of her mother’s touch on her skin.

She shakes herself, refocusing on the boy stroking the paint splatters on the t-shirt in his lap.

“Why don’t you get changed and crawl under the covers? I’ll get you something for your stomach. And the TV.” She winks at him, and Frankie smiles back, a weak, trembling thing, fighting through his obvious misery.

When she comes back with the TV, Frankie is lying on his side, blankets pulled up to his chin. He looks tiny in her bed. He’s quiet while she sets it up and doesn’t answer when she asks him what he wants to watch, just shakes his head. She leaves him be—he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to—and presses play on _Fantasia_. It’s what she and Kevin used to watch whenever one of them was sick, even as they got older, up until the winter he died.

She still watches it when she doesn’t feel well.

Frankie only manages a few bites of the toast she brings him and a few sips of ginger ale, but he doesn’t reach for the trash can she left on the floor next to him, so she counts it as a step in the right direction. Karen changes her clothes, too, slips on a pair of leggings and a matching paint splattered shirt, and then lies down on top of the covers next to him.

He starts crying thirty minutes into the movie.

“Frankie?” Maybe he wouldn’t want her to call attention to it, but ignoring him is not an option, either. She lays a careful hand on his shoulder, trying not to scare him.

He turns around immediately, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks flushed and messy with tears.

“I miss Mom,” he manages to get out before the sobs come. He buries his face in Karen for the second time that day, his arms tucked between them, his tears soaking her shirt. Karen hugs him close, a sensation that’s starting to feel familiar, and rests her chin on his head.

“I know, sweet pea.”

“I wish she were here.” The words come in a rush, in between big shuddering breaths.

Karen closes her eyes, suddenly wishing for her own mother, wishing she could talk to her, tell her about Frank, and Frankie and Lisa. Ask her if she’s doing any of this right.

“Me, too,” she whispers.

*

A loud banging startles her awake.

Frankie had fallen asleep shortly after he’d calmed down, and Karen must have fallen asleep with him. She untangles herself from him slowly so as not to wake him and checks her phone. She has four missed calls and seven text messages, all from Frank.

More banging, and her sleep-addled brain finally realizes it’s someone knocking on her door. She scrambles out of bed and runs to the living room, her apology already forming on her lips as she opens the door.

“I’m sor—”

Frank ambushes her before she can get the words out, reaching for her, crushing her to him.

She’s too surprised to hug him back at first, and then his arms close around her waist even further, bringing them even closer, and she lets her arms come up around his neck, hugging him back just as fiercely. His son is asleep, sick, in the next room, but for a minute, she lets herself forget about all of it and sinks into his embrace. He drops his chin on her shoulder, and Karen has the absurd thought that she’s holding him up.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and they’re wound around each other so tightly, she can feel his jaw move against her arm when he speaks.

“I’m sorry I missed your calls. And your texts. We fell asleep.”

Frank shakes his head against hers.

“It’s okay. I knew he was with you.” He pulls back, and Karen releases him, but he doesn’t let her go far, his hands catching her arms, cupping her elbows. “I was just trying to let you know when I’d be home,” he says, and the word catches in her chest. “He in the bedroom?”

“Yeah, he’s still sleeping.”

Frank nods and finally drops his hands.

“I’m going to…” He tilts his head in the direction of her bedroom, and she nods back. He disappears around the corner past the kitchen, and Karen takes a deep breath, pressing her palms to her cheeks.

She feels warm, flushed and flustered to go from sleeping to Frank’s arms so quickly. She tucks her hair behind her ears and has just gotten her breathing under control when Frank walks back into the room.

“It okay with you if I let him sleep? I’ll take him back across the hall, but I’d rather wait until he wakes up, let him rest while he can.”

“Of course.”

“Mind if I stay?”

“No, not at all.”

And it isn’t until he asks the question that she realizes how much she wishes he would never leave.


	8. forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: grief, loss of a sibling

Frank is in the living room with Frankie playing Minecraft when he hears the front door open, Lisa coming home after spending the afternoon at her friend’s, one of the girls in her class who lives in the building.

“Living room!” Frankie shouts, and Frank elbows him in the ribs.

“Think the whole building heard you, kid.”

Frankie grins, sheepish but unapologetic, and Lisa appears in the doorway, still wearing her backpack.

“You have fun, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, we did our nails.” She waves her fingers at them. “Have you talked to Karen today?”

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“No. Why?”

“I ran into her on my way to Avery’s. She seemed really upset.” Lisa glances down at her shoes and back up again. “She looked like she’d been crying,” she says quietly.

“You should go check on her.” Frankie tears his eyes away from the TV. “She’s always there for us when we’re sad.” And Frank knows he’s thinking about the day Karen brought him home from school. She’d told him later, in vague terms, that Frankie had been crying about Maria.

“You guys okay for a bit?”

Lisa drops her backpack and crosses the room over to him, takes his controller and plops down on the couch next to Frankie.

“We’ll be fine.”

He kisses them each on the head and then he’s out the door and across the hall, knocking on Karen’s door with the same urgency as that first day.

She doesn’t answer.

He knocks again, harder. No answer. The light is on in her apartment, peeking out from under the doorframe. He bangs on the door, unable to explain his rising panic even to himself.

Nothing.

Maybe she doesn’t want to see anyone. Maybe she can’t hear him. He absolutely does not consider all of the worst possible reasons why she might not be able to come to the door.

He fumbles in his pocket for his keys. They’d swapped weeks ago, but he’s never had a reason to use it. He’s overreacting, he knows. He lets himself in.

“Karen? Karen!”

His brain and his body fall back into an old rhythm, sweeping her apartment like he’s clearing rooms on a strike team. Living room empty. Kitchen empty. Bedroom empty. He’s running on autopilot, moving quickly, too quickly to draw the most obvious conclusion. He barges into the bathroom, swinging the door open.

She’s in the bathtub.

Bubbles up to her shoulders, water soaking into the hair escaping the bun at the base of her neck.

She turns her head to stare at him.

“Frank!”

He walks a few paces into the room so he can see her, breathing hard, adrenaline racing.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She lifts an arm out of the water to gesture at herself. “I’m in the tub.”

He exhales. His heart rate starts to slow.

“You’re fine.”

“I really am. What did you think…?”

“The light was on, and you weren’t answering. I thought…I don’t know what I thought.” He shrugs, helpless, as understanding comes. “I thought if something was wrong, I didn’t want to hesitate.”

Karen watches him, concern and empathy in her eyes, and it all catches up with him at once. She’s naked and in the bathtub. He stormed into her bathroom and then _stayed_. His face heats. His heart picks up again, but this time from embarrassment.

“Jesus Christ.” He turns away from her, gripping the sink. “Karen, I—I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I did give you a key. Not how I expected you to use it, but…”

He looks back at her. She’s pressing her lips together like she’s trying not to laugh.

“I’m an asshole.”

“Frank.” Despite the bubbles, she manages to make his name sound like a reprimand. “Are _you_ okay?” There’s humor in her tone and then her voice gets serious. “Why’d you come over? Are the kids okay?”

“They’re fine. They’re…” He trails off, finally calm enough to look at her and really see her. The skin around her eyes is swollen, red along her lashes. It’s not from the steam. “They’re worried about you,” he finishes.

Karen looks like she’s been caught. The sadness she must have been holding back breaks loose, transforming her face, her posture.

“Lisa said she ran into you on the way to her friend’s.”

Karen nods, casts her eyes down at the water. Frank leans back against the sink, arms crossed over his chest, and waits. When she looks back up at him, there are tears in her eyes.

“Do you remember that professor I told you about? The first day you came to the studio?” He nods. “Did I tell you he’s dead?”

He holds himself still, doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Karen looks away from him, at the wall next to her. A tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away, keeps her arms underwater where he can’t see them.

“Mother, brother, mentor. Death follows me, Frank.” She turns back to him, her eyes sharp. “Are you sure you want to get close to me?”

He does just that, pushing away from the sink, dropping onto his knees at the side of the tub. Karen closes her eyes as more tears fall, clenching her jaw tight like she’s trying to keep her tears from escalating into sobs.

“Hey.” But she won’t look at him. “Hey.” He lifts her chin with his index finger, and she finally opens her eyes, so blue he could drown in them and never wish for air. “The brothers I served with. My wife. I’m no stranger to death, Karen.”

Her eyes get impossibly sadder, but there’s acceptance there, too.

Frank braces himself on the edge of the tub and leans forward, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing her in, the floral scent of her skin, the bubble bath. He feels her answering sigh on his face, hears the gentle splash as she lifts her arm from the water and wraps wet fingers around his bicep, soaking his shirt, keeping him steady.

*

He makes coffee while she gets dressed. He has to do something with his hands.

When she joins him in the kitchen, her hair is loose, hanging limply around her face, and her eyes are even more red. She’s wearing a pink robe that looks so soft he wants to hold her all over again.

He pushes a mug of coffee towards her, and she wraps her fingers around it. It’s one of the ones she made herself. It fits perfectly in her hands. He’s jealous.

She doesn’t say anything, and maybe he shouldn’t press, but she has to know: He’ll cook her dinner and drive her upstate, drive her to the lumber yard and spend hours helping her stretch new canvas. He’ll help her carry her groceries, help her hang a new painting. He’ll teach her to weld, teach her to box, teach her anything she wants to know, give her anything, as long as she knows he’s here for this, too.

“You want to tell me what happened today?”

“How do you know something happened?”

“Because I know you, Karen. You’re brave, and you’re strong, and days like today don’t come out of nowhere.”

She sighs and closes her eyes as she exhales. Her shoulders drop, like the weight of her breath is a burden.

“I called my father.” She shakes her head a little, but it’s directed at herself. “I should never have called my father. Nothing good ever comes from calling my father.”

“Then why did you?” A relationship with distance like that, there’s always a reason you decide to cross it.

“He owns a diner; did I ever tell you that? The song he used to play when we would close for the night and clean up came on the radio while I was in the studio today. I haven’t heard it in years, and I thought…”

“What happened?”

She looks down at the mug of coffee in her hands for a long time. When she finally meets his eyes again, her gaze is hard and unflinching, but he doesn’t think he’s the one she’s trying to hurt with it.

“I never told you how Kevin died. It was a car accident.” She lets that sink in. A car accident. Like Maria. “I was in the car with him. I’d gotten wasted at a party, and I didn’t want Dad to find out, so I called Kevin. Because that’s what siblings do, right? You bail each other out, even when one of you is 16 and has only been driving for six months.”

Her eyes are shining again. Frank steps closer to her.

“We hit a patch of black ice. The car flipped. Only one of us made it. My dad’s never forgiven me,” she whispers. And then she takes a deep breath and her voice comes out loud, harsh. “So, when I called him today and told him maybe I could visit for the weekend once the semester was over, he told me not to bother. He’d stopped considering himself a father years ago.”

Frank’s jaw clenches. His trigger finger twitches. He presses his palm into the countertop to keep his hand from shaking. Karen’s eyes track the movement because even in this state, she’s attuned to him.

“It’s my fault, Frank,” she says, like she’s refuting something he’s just said. “I’m the reason he lost his son three years after he lost his wife.”

“No. No, you lost your brother. Three years after you lost your mother. It was his job to be there for you.”

“If I hadn’t called Kevin…” Tears spill down her cheeks. “I don’t blame him for not forgiving me.” She gestures at herself emphatically. “I’m the reason—”

“If you hadn’t called, something worse could have happened to you. You’re not the reason Kevin is dead,” he says bluntly, and she flinches. “Hey.” He ducks his head so she’ll look him in the eye. “You didn’t know there was going to be ice on the road. This shit happens. Because the world is fucked. And the word accident is useless—except when it’s true. Trust me, I know.” There are tears in his eyes, and in his voice, too, but he keeps going. “I’m a father, Karen. And it’s only about two things: Forgiving yourself for all the ways you fuck up because you don’t know what you’re doing, so you can try again and be better the next day; and forgiving your kids for all the mistakes they make while they try to figure out how to be in this world, so you can keep on loving them.” He closes the distance between them, holds her by the shoulders so she can’t look away from him. “Your father is a piece of shit. And there is nothing you need to be forgiven for.”

Karen hides her face in her palm, and the depth of her sobs makes him wonder when she last let herself cry like this. It’s hard to let yourself fall apart when you know there’s no one to catch you.

But there is now. And part of her must know that because she doesn’t pull away when he steps into her space, drawing her into his arms. She doesn’t hesitate to reach her arms up around his shoulders, to drop her hand from her face so she can press her wet cheek to his.

He loses track of time while he holds her, swaying them back and forth, running his hand over her hair. His kids are across the hall, and they know where to find him if they need him. He doesn’t have anywhere else he needs to be.

And he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.


	9. family

She thought maybe her meltdown would change things between her and Frank, make them uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. Frank is magnanimous and takes it in stride. She thought maybe he would look at her differently, and he does. He knows her even better now.

With the truth about Kevin, other truths come out.

Ben. How much he really encouraged her, taught her. The extra hours he helped her outside of class when he didn’t have to. How much it meant to have someone believe in her, how close she came to quitting again when she lost him. How she knew he’d have told her she had so much more to do.

Her relationship with his wife, Doris, who became her biggest supporter in Ben’s absence.

The next time she visits Doris, the art she brings to liven up the walls of her hospital room includes a few drawings from Lisa and Frankie and a get well soon card from the two of them. Karen didn’t have it in her heart to tell them she might never get better.

Doris is asleep when she gets there, so she crosses the room silently to the chair next to Doris’s bed, only to find Doris’s eyes on her when she sits down.

“I’m awake. You can quit tiptoeing.” Doris pushes herself up so she’s propped against the pillows more. “Too far. Come here.” She reaches for Karen with one trembling arm, and Karen takes her hand, joins her on the bed and hugs her. Doris pulls back to look her over, stroking her hair, tucking it behind her ear and smoothing it out, brushing the ends back over her shoulders. “How’s my girl?”

“Good.”

“You lying?”

“No.” And it feels like new, to be so certain. “How are you?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Thank God.”

Doris huffs.

“Thank my nurses first. Now show me what’s new and then show me what you brought me.”

Karen pulls her phone from her back pocket and opens the folder where she keeps the photos of her work. Doris inspects them slowly, like she always does, not even bothering to look up when the nurse comes in to check her vitals. She stops when she gets to the portrait of Frank. Karen finally finished it since her last visit.

She’d taken her time with it, taken longer maybe than she ever has with a painting. It felt especially important to get right.

“This your man?”

“He’s not mine.”

Doris looks at her shrewdly, then shifts her attention back to Karen’s phone.

“Has he seen this?” she asks after another minute of studying it.

“No.” Frank hasn’t ever brought up the portrait she started that night, and she’s never been able to decide whether it was out of respect for her process, lack of interest, or something else entirely. “Why?”

But Doris only shakes her head in answer.

“Ben would have been proud of you for this one,” she says.

“Yeah?”

Doris raises her eyebrows.

“I already said so. Don’t go fishing.” And then she softens, looking down at the portrait again. “Yes.”

“I have a show in three weeks. I was thinking of including it.”

Doris puts the phone down.

“You have a show? Where?”

“A friend of a friend’s boss is an investor in a gallery.” Karen shrugs, embarrassed.

“Doesn’t matter. All that matters is the art gets out there and—”

“Tells its story,” she finishes with a smile. “I know.” It was another of Ben’s mantras.

“Include it.” Doris hands her phone back. “What’d you bring me for my gallery?”

Karen hands Doris the stack she’d brought with her. It’s another slow perusal until she gets to the ones clearly done by Lisa and Frankie. Karen had set up a still life of Doris’s favorite flowers for the three of them when Frank had to work one weekend.

A huge smile breaks out over Doris’s face.

“My grandchildren do these?”

Karen’s mouth falls open.

“Doris!”

“What?” Doris purses her lips. “Karen Page. You cannot sit here on my sick bed and tell me you don’t love those children like they’re your own. The same way I love you.”

Karen stares, speechless. Doris’s face falls.

“Oh, honey. You really didn’t know?” She holds out her arms, and Karen leans forward, meets her halfway so Doris can take her face in her hands. “You’ve been mine and Ben’s since the day we met.”

Karen closes her eyes against her tears, and Doris pulls her closer, kissing her on the forehead.

“Blood isn’t the only way to make a family,” she tells her. She wipes the tears from Karen’s cheeks. “Sometimes in this life, you meet people, and you just know. They were meant to be yours. And you were meant to be theirs.”


	10. the reveal

Frank buys a new suit for Karen’s art show and a dozen white roses.

The gallery hosting her show is exactly what he imagined a gallery to be: glass front, light colored hardwood floors, stark white walls. It’s a big space, divided into three rooms by large, open doorways, the back wall of the gallery visible from the entrance. There’s a decent crowd assembled by the time he gets there, half a dozen people milling about each room.

He stops dead when he sees her, standing off to the side in the front room, talking to a few people; friends, colleagues, or admirers, he can’t tell. Her long dress falls to the floor in a repeating pattern of light and dark purple fabric, intricately embroidered with a tapestry of roses and stars. The deep neckline hugs the curve of her breasts, and her hair falls to one side in waves like a Hollywood starlet, the ends curling against her bare skin. Her lips are stained a deep purple, a near match to the color of her dress.

She’s a work of art herself tonight.

Karen’s eyes flick around the room, searching the crowd while he stares, but they stop when they land on him, and he realizes, with an ache in his chest, that she was looking for him. She excuses herself from her group without taking her eyes off him. He stays where he is, rooted to the spot, pinned by her gaze.

“Hi.”

She looks even more beautiful up close. She always does.

“Hi.” He clears his throat, trying to regain some sense. He holds up the flowers. “These are for you. Congratulations.”

She takes them from him, lifting them to her face to smell them.

“You bought me flowers?” she asks, surprise in her tone, and he lifts a shoulder, feigning nonchalance.

“I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.”

She smiles at that and cradles the roses in her arms, eyes on the velvet petals.

“You look stunning, Karen.”

She looks up at him and blushes.

“Thank you,” she says, voice soft.

“I won’t keep you. I know everyone’ll be wanting to talk to you tonight.”

Her blush deepens.

“Thank you for coming.”

As if he would miss it, and he tells her so, saying the words and leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

“Gonna go take a look around,” he murmurs, and then he steps away, further into the gallery, breathing in deeply in attempt to calm his racing heart.

*

If he’d thought it something, to be surrounded by Karen’s art in her apartment, it’s nothing compared to walking through the gallery, no furniture, no appliances, none of the messy practicalities of daily living to dull the effects of her work. It’s overwhelming. He feels as if he’s walking through the very heart of her.

None of her sculptures are on display, only her 2D work, most of them pieces he’s never seen. He makes his way through the show slowly, lingering over each piece, each new insight into Karen. He doesn’t know anyone else there, and no one approaches him. No small talk, no awkward introductions, and the experience is all the better for it. There’s an intimacy in viewing Karen’s art that he doesn’t want disrupted.

He spends a significant amount of time on a trio of paintings titled “Gone.” Three landscapes: a sprawling field of wildflowers on the edge of a forest; a two-lane highway stretching endlessly, flanked by miles of farmland; and a snow-covered swing set with a chain-link fence behind it, frosted mountain peaks rising in the distance. And in each one, a dark silhouette, blacking out the world around them. There are no landmarks, nothing to suggest a specific location. The silhouettes are nondescript—ageless, genderless, nothing to define them—and yet Frank is certain he’s looking at Karen’s mother, Karen herself, and Kevin. Or rather the void they left behind in her hometown.

When he finally pulls himself away and wanders into the last room, he doesn’t see it at first. It’s tucked in the far corner, and it feels hidden somehow, despite its size, bigger than he remembered it looking on her easel that night. It’s called “Grit,” and it’s a portrait of him.

He’s not looking at his profile or into his own eyes head-on; she’s captured him somewhere in between. It’s not a full body portrait; he can just make out the bend of his knee, the seat of the leather armchair, before the color blends into the darkness that makes up most of the portrait, behind and around Frank. In fact, he is the only thing that seems to catch the light, the contours of his body rendered in perfect detail. The loosening tension in his shoulders and his arms, the easing of his white-knuckled grip on his thighs. The relaxation on his face, no lines around his mouth, no clench in his jaw, his eyes fallen shut. He’s in motion even though he’s sitting still.

He knows his body. His muscles, his training, his breath. Karen caught him on an exhale.

She must have snapped a picture without him noticing and kept working after that night.

Despite the dark background, the whole painting is suffused with warmth, a warmth Frank recognizes: awe and admiration and respect, affection and tenderness. Hope and certainty. It’s the same feeling he has when he looks at Karen.

He lets that feeling wash over him and the truth of what it means.

Karen Page is in love with him, too.

*

He stays for the rest of the night.

As people wander in and out; when Karen briefly addresses the gathering, humble and gracious, thanking everyone for attending and the owner of the gallery for hosting; as she says goodbye to the last guests; until it’s just the two of them and the gallery’s manager, who disappears into the back office.

He’d avoided his portrait for most of the evening, but he stations himself there now. He’s not upset she included it—flattered, actually—but he was wary of anyone putting two-and-two together, asking questions he didn’t want to answer. Or didn’t know how to.

When she turns away from the door, she doesn’t seem surprised to find him still standing there, like maybe she was hoping she would. Her heels echo on the hardwood floor, the sound reverberating loudly now that the space is empty. She stops in front of him.

“You’re still here.”

“Thought you might like a ride.”

“I would.” She smiles, but it fades before it can really bloom. “What did you think?”

“It’s amazing, Karen. All of it.” His eyes sweep the room behind her. “I don’t know the right words, but what you did here tonight…You should be proud. I’m proud.”

“Thank you, Frank.” And it’s written all over her face, how much it means to her to hear it. “I actually meant…” She nods at the portrait. “I know I didn’t warn you. I didn’t even ask before I put you on display in front of all of these people you don’t know,” she rambles, and it makes him pause.

She’s wringing her hands, and she won’t look him in the eye, talking to the painting, instead.

She’s nervous. This was a risk for her. She said she put him on display, but she didn’t, not really. She put herself on display, without knowing how it’d be received. Somehow, she doesn’t know. She has no idea.

“I love you.” The depth of the feeling makes his voice gruff. “That’s what I think. I’m in love with you.”

Karen inhales sharply, but she doesn’t make a sound. He looks at the portrait again. It blurs in front of him.

“I think no one’s ever seen me the way you do.” He turns back to her, and she’s watching him closely, holding herself so carefully. He gets the feeling she’s holding her breath. “I think you’re the piece that’s been missing.”

“Frank,” she sighs. He’s heard her say his name a thousand times but never like this. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

He nods because he can finally see it. It’s been there, in some form, from the very beginning, coloring every action, every word, growing into the love she carries for him now.

He brings his hand to her face, strokes his thumb across her cheek, and she leans her head into his palm.

“I really want to kiss you.” But not here, not like this. Not when they’re not alone, when they have no privacy, when the gallery’s manager could walk in any second.

Karen’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, and he tracks the movement, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb.

“Take me home?” she whispers.

*

They’re quiet on the way, the air heavy with anticipation. They don’t say a word as they get out of the car, as they take the stairs to the fifth floor, as Karen unlocks the door to her apartment. It’s not a question tonight whether he’ll follow her inside.

She slips out of her heels first thing, reminding him of all the times he’s seen her do it before, and leads him into the kitchen, setting her flowers on the counter and reaching into one of the cupboards to pull out a vase. He watches her cut the stems off the roses, handling them delicately, dropping each one into the vase when she’s done.

He’s not sure why he’s waiting or what he’s waiting for.

Karen fills the vase with water and sets it in the center of the kitchen island, admiring the roses for a minute before she finally breaks the silence and asks, “Which one was your favorite tonight?”

“The one of you and your mom and Kevin.”

She was still gazing at the flowers when she asked, but now her eyes snap to his.

“What?” she says faintly.

“The one of you and your mom and Kevin,” he repeats. “‘Gone.’”

Her eyes widen, and he can read the question there. _How did you know?_

“I see you, too, Karen,” he tells her. Simple, plain. Obvious.

She kisses him.

It’s not hurried or rushed; it’s slow and gentle, a caress of her lips against his, a kiss that says, _I love you._

He answers her in kind, _I love you, too_ , and that’s all it takes, that one touch in return, and she’s winding herself around him, pressing her body to his, deepening their kiss.

So much about her is familiar. The curve of her waist, the smooth texture of her hair, her height and the way he fits perfectly in the crook of her elbow when she wraps her arms around his neck.

So much about her is new. The softness of her lips, the taste of her mouth, her teeth nipping his bottom lip and the sounds she makes when he kisses along her jaw to her ear and down her neck.

Her fingers slide through his hair, dig into his shoulders.

“How long,” she pants in his ear. “How long do you have the babysitter for?”

_Shit._

He drags himself away from her, stepping back to put space between them, and Karen makes a disappointed noise that almost has him pulling her back into him. He checks his watch.

“Another hour.”

He looks her over, the perfect waves of her hair mussed, the rise and fall of her chest, straining against her dress, the intense look of lust in her eyes. He groans and leans his forehead against hers, running his palms down her shoulders, down her arms, until they’re holding hands.

“Hour’s not long enough for all the things I want to do to you.”

Karen hums and lets go of one of his hands to run her fingertips over the line of his jaw.

“But it’s long enough to make out, right?”

This woman is going to kill him.

He groans again, dropping his head to her shoulder, before kissing her quick and growling “Yes, ma’am” against her lips. He scoops her up, and Karen laughs as he spins her around and sets her down on the kitchen island beside her flowers.

When he kisses her again, she tastes like joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karen's look for her art show taken directly from [this](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56c3533a37013b198dcdb996/1572748984382-5UZPD7RZ61IY1Q6EQ0FE/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kHem505q6McQd8XRhQc9zkRZw-zPPgdn4jUwVcJE1ZvWQUxwkmyExglNqGp0IvTJZUJFbgE-7XRK3dMEBRBhUpxpEURhgSBEh9ILe0HKIG3CcOCklsxWwam3CdWF6Xw7jwVv5P97BEtB5XaVnmvMtTA/ABOOKOFDEBORAHANN_WOLL_6.jpg?format=500w) [photoshoot](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56c3533a37013b198dcdb996/1572748984520-G4RVS2NTCZ8IROUBP7BX/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kHem505q6McQd8XRhQc9zkRZw-zPPgdn4jUwVcJE1ZvWQUxwkmyExglNqGp0IvTJZUJFbgE-7XRK3dMEBRBhUpxpEURhgSBEh9ILe0HKIG3CcOCklsxWwam3CdWF6Xw7jwVv5P97BEtB5XaVnmvMtTA/ABOOKOFDEBORAHANN_WOLL_8.jpg?format=500w).


	11. after

The morning after he tells her he loves her, the man across the hall knocks on her door and greets her with a kiss. His lips find hers like a reflex or a habit, like he’s turned it over in his mind so many times it’s second nature. He is warm and solid beneath her palms, the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his arms. The way he holds her is safe and sure.

He takes her by the hand and leads her back across the hall to where his kids are waiting. As soon as he opens the door, it’s evident he told them. They shriek in excitement, their happiness too new, too pure, to be contained, and throw themselves into her arms.

She doesn’t know what comes next, how fast or how slow they’ll take this. She knows when she hugs his son and his daughter and meets his eyes over their heads, she thinks, _our son_ , _our daughter_. She knows when he smiles at her it feels like forever.

She spent a sad childhood dreaming of escape, an angry adolescence determined to find it by any means, and a lonely adulthood learning that longing for escape was really wishing she belonged. A lifetime of wondering what it would be like to have a home.

But she doesn’t have to wonder. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end. A huge thank you to Aurelia for prompting the idea that started this fic and to everyone who’s stuck with this story. Thank you for indulging in this little universe with me. 💖
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://152glasslippers.tumblr.com/)


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